


Make It Look Like an Accident

by mevennen



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 11:57:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20759990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mevennen/pseuds/mevennen
Summary: This came out of a popular internet meme. Of course it did....





	Make It Look Like an Accident

You’re aware that your boss (codename ‘M’, real name Gareth Mallory) is, to put it mildly, a bit posh. Younger brother of a Duke. Son of one, therefore. Old Norman blood and despite the different spelling, the alleged descendant of the Malory who started the whole King Arthur thing. Grew up in what amounts to a stately home; one which is, moreover, neither open to tourists nor in the hands of the National Trust. Nor one which has been recently blown to smithereens by a helicopter gunship.

You’re aware that this mostly doesn’t happen to people’s ancestral residences. 

The brother in question, Roderick Mallory, Duke of Mortlake, has a house in Kensington as well as the aforementioned pile in Hampshire. Has to, really: he’s in town a lot. As illustrious career-wise as your boss, if not more so. Hereditary peer. Queen’s Counsel. Works for the UN bringing genocidal maniacs to prosecution for war crimes, when he’s not sitting in the Lords. A pillar of rectitude.

You keep running into him because he’s a member of various mutual clubs, including Blades, where you go fencing. After that business a few years ago (unfortunate: large insurance claim, stern words exchanged between the Blades management and your previous boss at M16 who was, like Queen Victoria, perpetually unamused) you have given attendance of the club a miss for a bit, before slinking back. You’re amazed you haven’t been blackballed. Especially since the current M is a member as well. 

When you do finally skulk back through Blades’ imposing entrance, you encounter the Duke in the foyer and recognize him immediately. Doesn’t look altogether like his younger brother. Similar bone structure, bit taller, and darker both of hair and eye. But it’s still the chilly up-and-down stare, the thin smile, the conservative three piece suit and handmade shoes.

“Ah, Commander Bond, isn’t it?” There’s no-one around who might overhear the name: the Duke has already checked, raking the foyer with a quick flicker. 

You nod. “Good evening, Your Grace.” 

The smile is still thin, but the voice is friendly enough, if not exactly warm. “Good to know all you chaps will be holding the fort over the next few days.”

This rings a bell: something Moneypenny was wittering on about…Oh yes. M is away from tomorrow, taking a long weekend or something. In the north? Possibly Scotland? You weren’t really listening. Better wing it.

“That’s correct, Your Grace. Going shooting?”

It is, after all, well past the Glorious Twelfth. 

The Duke’s gaze is really quite unnerving: you can’t seem to look away from it. He is reputedly terrifying in court. 

“In a manner of speaking, Bond. We’ll be up at Balmoral.”

“Oh! Visiting - ?” The title dies on your lips. 

“Yes.”

“Quite an honour.”

“She is my godmother, after all.” 

“Of course.” You fight a ridiculous impulse to bow your head. You don’t actually do this, because you’re not a member of the bloody peasantry, which we don’t even have any more, but somehow, psychically, atavistically, you feel that you have tugged some invisible forelock, because behind the horn rimmed glasses there’s a little flame of amusement in the depths of Roderick Mallory’s dark eyes and he says,

“Good to see you, Bond. Keep fighting the good fight, eh?” Then he picks up his fencing bag and is out of the door into the London gloom, leaving you staring after him. 

*

“Bloody awful weather.”

“Filthy. Maybe we should have flown after all?”

The Duke sighed. “I promised I’d drive. I’m now regretting it. Devil and deep blue sea, though. The nearest airport is Edinburgh. Which is now behind us.”

“Maybe I should have organized a helicopter?”

“Not on tax payers’ money, Gareth. And it is a bit stiff, really.”

Mallory nodded a silent assent. The family was wealthy, but preferred a degree of frugality as a matter of principle. Roderick’s Bentley might have cost a packet, but it wasn’t analogous to the amount that one-off private air transport would have entailed. It wasn’t _flashy_.

“After all, we’re not film stars.”

“Quite.” 

They sped into the darkness of the M90.

*

_M’s diary (decoded), September _

It is still raining. We _are_ in Scotland, of course. At least we didn’t have to leave the country, which I don’t feel I should do right now because stuff, as Moneypenny would say. Scotland is still part of the UK, even if it is hanging on by its fingernails. Or perhaps it’s England which is hanging onto it? But despite this tenuousness, it’s good to be north of the Border.

Roderick is downstairs, being debriefed as to the exhaustive round of pleasure that awaits us over the next few days. Shooting, mainly. Possibly a bit of fishing. Fine with both of us: normal weekend in the country if a bit more structured than usual. My grandfather would have called it ‘Friday to Monday.’ Regarded ‘weekend’ as unspeakably common. Times have changed. 

I’m still not sure why we’ve been hauled up here, honour though it is. Her Majesty is after all Rod’s godmother and an old friend of our late grandparents. I have to go and see her once or twice a year, on official business. We have visited from time to time in a social capacity – Sandringham, though, not here. Ma’am likes Roderick: still regards him, I suspect, as the serious, sensible boy in horn rimmed spectacles poring over ancient legal tomes while I was yomping about the Brecon Beacons learning how to kill people. I’m sure Rod thinks I think he’s a stick-in-the-mud stuffed shirt, but I don’t, in fact. Have a lot of respect for my big brother, not that I’d tell him that, obviously. And now here we are wandering about the castle and not discussing why we’ve been invited in the first place. Because we still don’t actually know. 

_September_

Mallory raised the gun, tucked it into his shoulder and fired, both barrels. The shots rang out over the dull russet of the wet bracken. It was still a little too early for the heather to show strongly on the slopes, despite the turn of the season, and overhead the sky was a pale, thin blue. The rest of the guns were further down the slope.

“Oh, good shot.” 

Mallory stood back and let the dogs do their work, bringing the floppy birds back to the butts from the edge of the loch. 

“Thanks, Roderick. I was well educated. Bit like the dogs.”

The Duke smiled. “At least you’re house trained. More or less. I was once lent a gundog that jumped into a pond and swam round and round after a water rat and wouldn’t come out.”

“I was once lent one that ran straight over a hill and didn’t come back until after lunch.”

“One needs a team that pulls in harness with one, really, Gareth.”

“One does. Ah!”

Down the slope, a small figure in a Barbour and a hat that looked as though someone had sat on it was gesturing imperiously.

“I think we’re being summoned, Rod.”

“I think we are.” 

_September_

The day had progressed as days do at Balmoral. Very much according to a pattern, but both the Duke and Mallory were happy with that: boarding school institutionalizes you to a degree for the rest of your life, and so do the army and the Bar. Dinner had been civilized and plain (venison, of which Mallory approved, and an excellent wine list), and followed by a couple of malt whiskies up in the sitting room attached to the Duke’s chamber. No games this evening, to both Roderick and Mallory’s secret relief.

“It’s the only bit of it I don’t like,” Roderick remarked to his brother. “I’m no good at charades.”

“Not even after a lifetime in law and politics?”

The Duke had merely snorted. 

Later, Mallory undressed and climbed into bed, enjoying the Highland silence. There was an owl, far away in the pines. As usual, however, the room was far too hot: Balmoral wasn’t overheated by most people’s standards, but most people’s standards weren’t Mallory’s. He got up again and threw the sash window open.

Back in bed with the cool breeze sighing through, he closed his eyes, drifted off, and was startled into full wakefulness an hour later by a rustling sound. That’s not right. Foliage, outside, being disturbed. The breeze had not changed in intensity. Mallory lay motionless, listening.

Then there was a soft knock on the door. He got up. 

His brother, clad in a dressing gown of impeccably sober tartan, was standing in the corridor, accompanied by a short, stout woman whom Mallory, for a second, thought to be their hostess. She wasn’t, thank God. Whilst these were his classiest pyjamas, there were limits. 

“This is Mrs Soames, one of the housekeepers,” the Duke of Mortlake hissed. “She thinks there’s someone in the ivy.”

“In the - ? Where’s the security detail?”

“On the other side of the castle, apparently.”

“Shit! Sorry, Mrs Soames.” 

“Through here.” Roderick gestured towards the sitting room. Mallory went in quickly and peered around the side of the window. Above, the ivy was rustling as if disturbed by a high wind. Very large owl? But then he caught a glimpse of the dark figure scrambling over the parapet onto the roof.

“Right,” Mallory breathed. He entertained a fleeting notion of going back to his room for his Glock, then thought sod that. Whispering “Stay here” to his brother and Mrs Soames, he crossed the corridor into a mirroring sitting room on the other side of the wing. Here, he hoisted up the sash window and levered himself out into the welcome shock of a cold Scottish night. More ivy and – yes! – a drainpipe. Seconds later, Mallory, too, was on the roof. 

He could hear the intruder, moving about on the other side of the wing. Ignoring the discomfort of rugged tiles against bare feet, he went up the roof and flattened himself against a chimney. From far across the estate, he saw the sudden flicker of headlights and heard a Landrover engine starting up: almost certainly this was the security detail, summoned by Roderick and Soames. The intruder must have heard it, too, for the footsteps quickened. Mallory nipped around the chimney and saw the man, black clad and wearing a balaclava and combat boots, running nimbly along the parapet. 

He ducked back down the roof and followed, on the other side of the building. When he reached the turret at the end, he climbed the tiles again to the ridge. To his annoyance, the man had doubled back. Heard the vehicle and chickened out, Mallory thought, or didn’t want to tackle the turret. He saw the intruder, rope in hand, about to abseil down the side of the building. The Landrover was racing around the castle, bumping over the rough grass. Mallory scrambled down the roof and ran to the edge, but just as he was about to free the rope, which had been attached to the chimney breast, he saw the intruder hurtling downwards and a flapping hooked shape shoot out of the window like an enormous bat. It struck the intruder smartly across the knuckles and dislodged him with a grunt. He fell to the ground just as the Landrover turned the corner. 

“You!” Mallory roared, hoping the driver could hear him above the engine. “He’s heading that way!” Good night vision granted him the view of the intruder running towards the stand of pines. The Landrover veered after him. 

Mallory took advantage of the rope and swung down through the open window into some kind of state room, where he landed at the feet of his elder brother and a hand-wringing Mrs Soames. Roderick was clutching a large, old fashioned umbrella, which he lowered as soon as he saw Mallory. 

“I think I got him,” the Duke said.

“You did, you knocked him off the rope. All that fencing must have paid off, eh, Rod? Hopefully security will pick him up if they’ve finally got their heads out of their –“

“Landrover,” Roderick interjected, with a glance at the housekeeper. 

“Exactly what I was going to say.”

But it appeared that security had not.

*

Balmoral was in lockdown. Mallory had delivered a scalding excoriation to the security detail who took it in silence, standing rigid in the kitchens. From the look in Mrs Soames’ eye, she was about to follow suit once Mallory had returned to his slumbers. He rather thought there might be a queue: the head of the household had also been roused and was staring at security over his military moustache with an air that boded ill for the luckless soldiers. 

“I trust Her Majesty has not been disturbed?”

“No,” Brigadier-General Gordon said, curtly. “Thanks to you, Lieutenant Colonel, and you, Your Grace. And Mrs Soames, of course, who first raised the alarm. An air of complacency has evidently entered this establishment and I intend to eradicate it.”

“Do we know who he was, Gareth?” the Duke asked. 

“He was wearing a balaclava. Couldn’t see his face. About my height, medium build, moved like a professional. There must be CCTV footage.”

But the cameras, it seemed, had been expertly disabled. 

With Gordon, Mallory went back over events and by three a.m., was able to return to his bed. With luck, he might even get some sleep. Breakfast would be at eight sharp and one was expected to show up. 

_M’s diary (decoded)_

Actually did manage to get a bit of shuteye and woke just in time to shave, wash and dress and present myself somewhat blearily in the dining room, where I found the D of E peering into the kippers.

“Gordon tells me we had a visitor!” he barked. “Damn shame no-one woke me. I’d have soon sorted the bastard out.”

Her Majesty’s consort is not far off his century and has only recently stopped driving, for reasons which have made the national press.

“Indeed, Sir.” I had a sudden mental vision of the old boy wielding a blunderbuss.

“Kipper?”

“Thank you, Sir.” 

He thrust a plate at me and collapsed into a nearby chair. “Pissing down out there.”

“I noticed.” 

“Pity. I shall be inside, of course. Watercolours. What are you chaps up to?”

“I’m not sure, Sir,” I told him. “Perhaps a spot of hunting.”

He gave me a startled glance beneath bristling brows. “But you know as well as I do that it’s not Nov – ah. I see what you mean. Damn good plan, Mallory.”

“Quite so, Sir,” I murmured. “Would you care for another kipper?”

_September_

After breakfast Mallory spent the morning exploring the castle, undertaking a thorough investigation of the bits available to view, and quizzing Mrs Soames about any attics or cellars. She was extremely helpful. He said as much to his brother.

“Always cultivate the staff,” Roderick said. “They know far more about what goes on than anyone else. Look at Mrs Hartwell.” Mrs Hartwell had run the Mallory family household for aeons. It was debatable whether she actually had a first name and she appeared to have stopped ageing around sixty, some considerable time ago. Mallory’s younger brother, Richard, had once made a case for the housekeeper being a vampire. 

“Yes,” Mallory said now. “And ruled it with a rod of iron, too. I remember her giving me an epic bollocking once for leaving a lid off a jar.” 

“I don’t remember that. How old were you?”

“About 48. Anyway, there’s been a household purge here recently.”

“Oh?”

“Several staff dismissed in London by the Master of the Household – hasn’t made him very popular, apparently, but it was a cost cutting exercise. And one of the footmen up here has been let go.”

“A reasonably fit footman, by any chance?”

“Yes. Ex Forces.” 

“Hmmmm. Well, we shall await developments.”

“Has Ma’am said anything to you about why we’re here?”

“No. She said it was nice to see both of us and enquired after my children, but that has been more or less it. I’ve spoken to Gordon, by the way, just now and he says he’s checked the weather and there’s a gale on the way, Force 8, apparently. So he suggests we batten down the hatches and make the most of the Scotch collection.”

“Sounds splendid.” Although Mallory didn’t want to drink too much, too early, in case there were more shenanigans. He cadged a cup of tea out of the obliging Mrs Soames and went into the library, where he found his hostess, wearing a headscarf and speaking to a dog.

She had given up corgis; retiring, essentially, from being one of the country’s top breeders. This was a spaniel. Both monarch and dog were rather damp. 

“Ah, Mallory! Terrible weather we’re having.”

“Revolting, Ma’am.”

“Do sit down. I see you have a nice cup of tea. I shall have some more brought in. I would like to speak to you.” 

“Ma’am.” Mallory did as he was instructed and found a nearby armchair.

“Mallory, _that man_ has been on television again this morning.”

Mallory looked politely enquiring. “That man, Ma’am?”

“Oh, you know! That appalling man! The Prime Minister!”

“I believe he is sometimes required to appear on the BBC, Ma’am, in the execution of his public duties.”

She gave him a beady look. “Don’t be facetious with me, young man.”

In one’s fifties, this was actually rather flattering. 

“Sorry, Ma’am.”

“You know him, of course.”

“Well, yes, Ma’am. He was my boss when he was Foreign Sec.”

“I remember that. What do you think of him, Mallory?”

“Well, er…”

“Be honest!”

“To be perfectly frank, Ma’am, I think he’s an utter buffoon.”

“Oh thank God! So do I.”

“However, he is legally the PM. Even without a mandate.”

“And this man, Rubbings, Slummings, whatever he’s called?”

Ah yes. Mallory nearly said, “What, you mean the PM’s puppet master?” but thought better of it and murmured instead,

“Quite so, Ma’am.” 

“And he lied to me! The Supreme Court has said so!”

Mallory nearly said, _he IS a politician, Ma’am_, but reason prevailed. Wouldn’t want to be accused of facetiousness again. 

“And the other one! That other dreadful person!”

“Um, which one?” _Spoilt for choice these days_, thought Mallory.

“Grease-Smugg, or whatever he’s called. The one with all the children.”

“Oh, him! Lees-Hogg.” Mallory managed to rein in a visible shudder. It had taken him a long time to extricate himself from previous dealings with the MP for the late Nineteenth Century. 

The Queen uttered a few pithy phrases in which the words ‘parvenu,’ ‘appalling,’ ‘unspeakable’ and ‘nouveau riche’ could be discerned. Finally she said, 

“Are you familiar with your English history, Mallory?”

“I should like to think so, Ma’am. Bit better on military history than social.”

“Henry II,” said the Queen.

“I’m sorry –“

“How familiar are you with Henry II?”

They locked glances. “Passably,” Mallory breathed. 

They finished their tea in a contemplative silence.

_Mallory’s diary (decoded)_

Is she really thinking what I think she’s thinking? 

The only thing I can remember about Henry II – and I had to check this with Rod, who’s a gold mine when it comes to this sort of information – is _will no-one rid me of this turbulent priest?_

When I told him why I was asking, my brother stared at me aghast.

“She can’t possibly be saying…”

“I don’t know.”

“But it is, utterly and completely, against the law of the land. Obviously!”

“Is she technically not above the law, though?”

Roderick sighed. “You know as well as I do that she’s basically a kind of human rubber stamp. She doesn’t actually have any executive power except in principle.” 

“What if she’s decided she wants some, though?”

They were standing on a ridge of land near the shooting butts, looking out to the distant hills. Despite the rising gale and a preliminary spatter of rain, Mallory had decided that it was unsafe to have this discussion inside the castle. 

“Dear God,” said the Duke. “Well, she’s not above morality. Can you talk her out of it?”

“Out of what? Since she hasn’t actually suggested anything. Just hinted.”

“And she didn’t ask you to – well, arrange something? I must say, Gareth, that if she has, I must protest in the strongest possible terms and I will feel compelled to take action, via the UN if I have to.”

He had grown very pale. Mallory put a hand on his brother’s wax-jacketed arm and gave it a squeeze.

“Roderick, I completely understand. Try not to worry. I’ll think of something.” 

_M’s Diary, (decoded)_

Had to engage in charades this evening. I really am hopeless but managed to outfox everyone by miming Straw Dogs with the aid of the spaniel, though I thought it was obvious. Rod did passably well despite being thoroughly rattled, but Her Majesty won. Perhaps unsurprisingly. She seems to be enjoying herself, though: she likes it up here, surrounded by her old courtiers, who must be basically old friends by now. Her offspring and so on are all down south, engaging in engagements, foreign tours and what have you. Thank God, actually. What with this Florida business I don’t feel up to dealing with the D of Y right now if I’m not to tear out what remains of my hair. 

We will be obliged to attend church tomorrow morning. In a way, this is a good thing: I am trying to avoid finding myself alone with HM just in case she says anything else. My mind keeps dwelling on possibilities, none of them acceptable. 

Very blustery and wet. 

_September_

Mallory was sitting on the edge of his bed, pyjama clad and methodically winding up an alarm clock, when there was another knock at his door. With a sense of déjà vu, he opened it, to find Roderick and Mrs Soames once again upon the threshold. 

“Christ, what now?”

“There’s someone sneaking about downstairs,” Mrs Soames hissed.

“You do have a large number of staff.”

“Gordon told everyone to go to bed as soon as they’d finished their duties and stay there, just in case. And he’s put men by the windows.”

“Are you sure it isn’t Gordon himself?” Roderick said.

“No. He had to go to the barracks – some military do or other, and he was going to cancel but Her Majesty told him to go.”

Mallory was already striding down the corridor. As he reached the landing, he could hear a noise which was very familiar; the sound of stealth, coming from below. Someone who was doing a very good job of being quiet, but not quite quiet enough. Catching up, Roderick plucked at his sleeve. 

“Should we call for assistance?” the Duke mouthed.

Mallory shook his head. He took two quick steps, one up onto a monks’ bench by the bannister, and one onto the bannister itself. Then he dropped the fifteen feet or so to the ground floor, bouncing silently off a sofa. Nothing like earlier reconnaissance for giving you confidence in your movements. 

Downstairs, it was utterly dark and this was wrong. He could hear someone moving about in the side chamber in which, earlier, he had found Queen and spaniel. Mallory slid across the hallway to the door, which was ajar, and listened. In the very faint grey light before the curtains, someone was moving around. Mallory was through the door and beside the intruder almost before the man realized. With a brief exclamation, he struck out, but Mallory blocked it, chopping down onto the man’s neck. The intruder crumpled with a sigh to the floor. 

“Roderick! Mrs Soames! Could you put the lights on, please?”

He blinked as the Duke and Mrs Soames ran in and the room was flooded with illumination. The intruder lay unconscious at Mallory’s feet, face down, the balaclava hiding his head. The Duke had procured a sword from somewhere on his way down the stairs, probably off a wall display, and he held the point unwaveringly at the man’s throat.

“Right. Let’s see who we’ve got here,” Mallory snapped. “Mrs Soames, go and get security.” He took hold of the balaclava and tugged, then rolled the man over, guessing possible identities as he did so. A disgruntled former footman? A random stalker? An assassin from the GRU? Then he saw the man’s face. There was a startled exclamation from the Duke. 

“Oh bollocks,” Gareth Mallory said.

*

The Queen wore a pink nightie, with matching slippers and a woolly dressing gown that had seen better days.

“A nice cup of tea for everyone, I think. Mrs Soames is seeing to it now. How are you feeling, Commander?”

Bond shot her a hangdog look from bloodshot blue eyes.

“I’ve felt better, Ma’am. The boss hits hard.”

“Well, I must say, you’ve passed the test. I shall personally apologise to the men you laid out on the terrace. And to Gordon, of course.”

“Test, Ma’am?” Mallory said, trying to keep his voice under control.

“I’m sure you understood our conversation yesterday.”

“I was hoping I hadn’t.”

“You see, there are very few people I can really trust, Mallory. Commander Bond has done much for his country. Dear Roderick is also one of the people in whom one has faith. You are another.”

There was a flurry of movement from the ducal armchair. “Ma’am, I really must pro –“

“Don’t be silly, Roderick. I’m not expecting anyone to do anything _now_. But I need to know that we have a plan B if things turn potato-shaped.”

“I think it’s ‘pear shaped,’ actually, Ma’am.”

“I prefer “potato.” I apologise, Gareth, for suborning your personnel, but I wanted to see how far things could be taken. If someone can get in here, into my private residence, without being captured, then Downing Street should be a doddle.” She looked at the three pairs of male eyes, staring at her in horror. “What? It’s not as though a monarch has never had a politician removed before.”

Everyone spoke at once, like the stuttering of shotguns.

“But Ma’am!”

“Ma’am!”

“But – “

“You’re all sensible. I know I can leave it with you to judge the most appropriate moment if push really comes to shove. Now. Since we’ve all had our tea, I expect you’d like to go back to sleep? Commander, I believe Mrs Soames is making up a bed for you.”

*

The journey back down the M90 and the M1 is undertaken in silence. You sit in the back seat of the Duke’s Bentley. You still have a thumping headache but your respect for M has increased, not that you’re going to tell him that. Your boss and his brother are in the front. Somewhere in Northumberland, the duke, who is driving, switches on the radio, in time for the pips and the news. 

The Prime Minister is on R4, talking about pork pies of all things and how Brexit will open up American markets. British pork pies are, he says, the best. America deserves them, but they are not available for transatlantic export due, the implication is, to the evil EU and once we have left Europe as the electorate demanded and expects, things will be very different. But there is a man on the news who is the manager of a Melton Mowbray pie factory, and he refutes these claims. Pies have a very limited sell-by date, he tells the nation, and it would not be practicable to export them to the States even given the relevant trade agreement.

“If I’d played my cards right,” your boss says bitterly to the Duke of Mortlake, “_I_ could have been the manager of a pie factory, rather than MI6. I could have had a perfectly comfortable life in Wiltshire, or wherever Melton Mowbray is.”

“Leicestershire. And as usual, the PM is talking out of his – “ the Duke stops.

“Pie hole?”

“Quite so.”

You cannot resist. You lean between the leather seats of the Bentley. 

“Sir?”

“Yes, 007?”

“We _could_ in fact make it look like an accident.”

There is silence all the way down the M1. 

END


End file.
